


Far From Eryn Vorn

by Reckoning1187



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Aragorn, BAMF Jack Frost (Guardians of Childhood), BAMF Legolas Greenleaf, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Jack Frost Whump (Guardians of Childhood), M/M, Orcs, Protective Aragorn, Protective Legolas Greenleaf, Protective Pitch Black (Guardians of Childhood), The Other Guardians Are Not Here, Wargs, may add more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reckoning1187/pseuds/Reckoning1187
Summary: Jack was a peaceful winter spirit who roamed the forest of Eryn Vorn. He never expected to get caught up in the war between the Five Armies, but here he was. Guarding the western waterfront where his forest resides, he fights almost day and night to defend his home from orcs.OrA crossover fic that no one asked for that I wrote. May or may not continue, but I thought I’d post it anyway.
Relationships: Implied Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! While writing this fic I used a great tool that helped with the writing process. It’s a digital map of Middle Earth by LOTRProject — the best part is that it’s completely free of charge! On the website (which I will link below for use at your discretion) there are many things to do. There are places, timelines, events and paths the characters took in “The Hobbit” or “The Lord of the Rings,” including many of the places referenced in this story. I highly recommend using it as you read, as even I have trouble keeping track of where the characters are otherwise! 
> 
> http://lotrproject.com/map/#zoom=3&lat=-1315.5&lon=1500&layers=BTTTTT 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy the fic and don’t hesitate to leave your thoughts in the comments!
> 
> ____________________________________________________________________________

Jack touched the freezing ocean with his bare feet, but he didn’t shiver at all; it felt quite nice to him. A flaming arrow brushed past his face, and he flinched back in pain from the burn. He was surprised that he could still feel anything, considering he had lost so much blood already. The horde was before him on the ocean, sending arrows down like hail from their flatboats. Jack plunged his entire body into the Belegaer Sea despite the fear that chilled even his bones. He let himself fall, shivering with discomfort at the sensation. ‘Let’s see the orcs shoot me now,’ he thought with a weak smirk. He watched as the orcs climbed out of their ships and wobbled across the thick ice on the surface of the sea. Thrusting his staff up towards the surface, Jack sent a burst of icy shrapnel towards the disgusting swine-like soldiers. The surface-ice broke and shattered beneath them, and a few were impaled by the spearlike shards of darkened ice. 

He watched the orcs fall into the sea, desperately trying to surface between the treacherous panels of thick ice; some made it onto the slabs, some crushed beneath. He shot out of the water again, sweeping several of the orcs around him off of the feet. They fell to the ground with surprised grunts. At his staff’s direction, the wind pushed a few more off balance or into the churning waters below them. He took a few measured leaps back toward the shore, not wanting to stray too far. He couldn’t let the orcs past the shoreline; if they made it that far — he didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t — no, wouldn’t — let that line fall. If he had defended the western shoreline for this long, he could defend it another day until the elves got there. With another slash of his staff he sent more orcs into the frigid brine. He looked up barely dodging the next volley of arrows that was sent towards him. He sidestepped two slashes from an orc’s axe a little too late — his exhaustion was starting to take its toll — and the tainted blade cut into his bicep and side deeply. He stepped back into the water to avoid another swipe of the filthy weapon, hooking his staff around his opponent and pulling him into the ocean after him. The orc slipped out of Jack’s staff, rising to the surface just in time to be crushed by two walls of ice. A smirk of mixed disgust and satisfaction burned on Jack’s lips, but exhaustion soon extinguished it. 

Jack let himself sink until he could only see the orcs as specks through the ice. He rested there a while, not able to tolerate the pain from the burns and injuries he had sustained. Occasional flashes of light flickered above him where torches or blazing arrows touched the ice. A wave of darkness from the depths of the ocean made itself known. He suddenly felt that he needed to breathe. Jack’s eyes opened wider at the sensation, yet suddenly he felt strangled by the waters that surrounded him. He gasped for absent air and water filled his lungs in its stead. He choked and writhed in the viscous sway, thrashing his legs, trying to get away from the water that surrounded him. The panic that raced through his veins somehow felt familiar, though he could not place from when or where. He felt a light shiver run slide down his spine, and the edges of his vision turning dark. His body went limp and his staff sunk into the depths. Through his fleeting vision he saw tendrils of black sand rise from beneath him, though not like the pale or golden grains he was used to seeing. It was like each strand had a mind of its own, swaying this way and that to perform its own job. They grew in numbers and became ropes of slick and course vines, tangling around him. He saw nothing more. 

. . .

Jack could feel before his other senses came back to him. Slowly he began to feel again. He felt warm and sticky, like he had just come back from a day in early spring when he was late to head north to colder temperatures. Sweat dripped off his forehead, pooling in his damp hair. The surface beneath him was like smooth wood, and seemed to bounce and jerk underneath him. He cracked his eyes open to the dim light of a fire — several fires. Flicking his pale eyes around, he took in his surroundings. He could see an army of men’s — or something else’s — heads and helmets, though his blurry vision didn’t help with identification much. His eyes stung, and he blinked them several times to clear them. He flinched slightly as he saw the pair of small beady eyes of an orc peer back at him. The orc gave a low grunt and hurried off ahead of the other orcs, pushing through those who were in his way. Jack watched until he disappeared into the crowds, and despite being surrounded by the enemy, his body desperately pulled him into a restless sleep. 

. . .

(Earlier…)

He had been sent to assure the passage through the western border — what seemed like a simple task as there was only a single guardian blocking the way. That same guardian had wiped out almost half of the reserves that Saruman the White had sent. Hence Pitch Black’s presence had been requested at the front lines and here he was, watching the filthy orcs get slaughtered by treacherous ice, grasping ocean and deadly gusts of frigid wind. 

At first Pitch hadn’t seen him, but as the full-scale moon revived itself from the cloud cover, he was able to fully discern him; Hair as white and fluorescent as the ice that covered the ocean in front of him and piercing, pale-blue eyes. The boy held a crooked staff and approached the horde of orcs from the shallows of the shore. The nightmare beneath him stood almost motionless; this boy was not afraid of the army ahead of him, but something else. Through the dark Pitch could sense the frigid power within him. 

Perched atop his nightmarish horse, Pitch surveyed the orcs rowing hastily towards the icy fields of the ocean. Before the orcs even touched the ice, their piggish commander had ordered them to fire their burning arrows at the lone target. An arrow whizzed past the boy’s face. He saw a splash and the boy was gone, eaten by the tall waves. The orc commander shouted to his ragged troops to advance, and the horde spilled onto the ice. The drifting ice flats erupted with wickedly sharp spikes of ice, several of which skewered almost five orcs at a time. The boy shot out of the water again, pushing more of his opponents into the ocean before parrying a few strikes sent at him by an orc. He dipped off of the ice, pulling the squealing orc with him. Pitch’s horse dove into the water. He moved closer to the boy, hoping for a better look or even an interaction. He saw the boy drift in his exhaustion, the water around him tinted red. The boy choked on the water suddenly and the nightmare Pitch rode on pranced and jumped with malicious excitement underneath him. Fear had taken hold of him — finally! He thrashed in the depths as lost his breath, pulling the salty water of the Belegaer into his empty chest. He lay still after that, motionless and without a twitch. Pitch reined his horse in and crossed the watery depths between the two. He didn’t stop, and hurtled past the unconscious boy, commanding his eerie-black sand to wrap around the boy, restrain him. The boy -- now laying in a bed of sand -- drifted behind the powerful legs of the nightmare and its rider. 

Pitch breached the surface of the ocean in a matter of seconds, the nightmare fading away as he dismounted onto the sandy black island he had pulled above the water. The ocean’s waves lifted the sand and carried it away, causing it to sink slightly. The brine reached just up to the boy’s sharp cheekbones, trailing from between his pale, parted lips and across his cheek. Pitch quickly stooped down to him, ignoring the water lapping at his knees, and lifted the boy’s head and shoulders out of the water. These he placed on his lap. He pressed his ear to the boy’s chest for a heartbeat; there was none.

Pitch’s hand moved above the boy’s face and small tendrils of sand slipped into his mouth. Moments later, the boy was coughing and spluttering out water, and the nightmare lord turned him over to the side to let the water drain from his lungs. Once he knew the boy was finished, he slid his hands under the boy’s shoulders and knees, lifting him effortlessly up. He was lighter than Pitch had expected, and his blue shirt hung limply off his frame, showing how skinny he really was. Pitch looked over the boy in his arms, watching the rise and fall of his chest, and seeing the blood seep meagerly through the deep and shallow cuts covering his body. One of the cuts tore through his blue coat and a large, a half-cauterized gash lay on his porcelain skin; many smaller cuts and burns littered his arms, legs and shoulders. Pitch gave the boy one last look before he formed the nightmare horse out of sand and mounted it, the boy limply sitting in front of him. He flicked the black-sand reins and the horse bolted towards the shore. 

. . .

Pitch set the boy on a wide, flat slab of driftwood. He had bound his wounds with simple bandages that wrapped around his slim torso and arms. The boy was bare-chested except for the bandages and a clean blouse that was laid loosely over him. He seemed as peaceful as when he was in the water, plus the rising and falling of his chest this time. 

“Sire,” a gruff voice behind Pitch spoke, and the black-clad lord tore his eyes from the boy to face the orc. “We must move on as soon as we can. The sun will set soon and we must get to Isengard before the third moonset.” The creature paused. “Also,” he blinked nervously, glancing at the unconscious boy, “the others aren’t sure about the Nephilim—” Pitch narrowed his eyes and snatched the orc by the throat, holding him to where his feet dangled from the ground — still Pitch towered over him. The orc kicked and spluttered, putting his ugly, knotted hands to his throat. 

“You will follow my orders if you want to survive, orc. We will leave within the hour,” Pitch spat, dropping the orc to his knees. “Rally the troops. Bring this one to be carried. Tell me the moment he awakens.” Pitch looked down to where the white-haired boy slept, his eyes unconsciously softening when he looked at the pink-stained bandages.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter our favorites from LOTR~!
> 
> ______________________________________________________________________________

Aragorn walked among the forested woods of Eryn Vorn. Snow drifted through the dense trees, lightly settling on the dark, frozen ground. It was bitterly cold, and he shifted his cloak further up his shoulders. He caught a glimpse of movement in the trees, but did not stop or turn to face it. He continued on through the silent trees, wading through the shadows of long-lasting moonlight. A twig snapped behind him. He drew his softly glowing sword and spun to meet it. 

Several orcs stood before him, growling, snorting and hissing as they charged him, crude swords at the ready. Aragorn lunged at one, cutting deep into its armored shoulder before turning to face the other two. Their patchwork faces twisted in agony as they fell to the ground. Another orc charged from the depths of the woods, Strider turning to face it. An arrow whizzed ahead of his sword and lodged itself between the orc’s eyes. Aragorn whipped around, looking for the arrow’s master. 

Smirking through the dark, Strider sheathed his fluorescent blade and walked up to meet his friend. Legolas stepped out of the shadows and into a patch of half-light, highlighting his sharp Elvish features with gray-silver. 

“Melon,” Aragorn greeted. He wrapped an arm around the shoulder of his elven friend. “What brings you here to Eryn Vorn?” Strider stepped away, his face darkening at the thought of the orcs. 

“Surely we are here for the same reasons, Elessar.” Legolas paused and frowned, looking around them into the frosted woods. He motioned for Aragorn to follow him, and set off through the woods, Strider at his heels. “The forest trembles with unrest; its master and protector have been gone for too long - at least a few days - and unexpectedly.” Legolas stopped and looked at Strider. “I’ve not seen Naisúelë since I arrived.”

“It is curious that he hasn’t shown himself yet, given that he is always eager to greet travelers and friends alike. But for orcs to come this far into the wood? They’re the one thing he truly despises.”

Legolas gave a slight nod. “Something definitely isn’t right.” He sprung off through the forest again, Strider in tow. Soon they came upon the edge of the treeline. They looked out into the sandy-grass fields before the Belegaer Sea. Flickering, soaring lights sped over the night sky, though many miles away. 

“Orc-fire! Do you think—”

Strider nodded. “ Naisúelë.”

. . .

The pair loped over the grassy plains of the Belegaer shoreline for two days. The terrain was ragged and rough to travel on, but the pair made haste through the wilderness despite. They only stopped in the day, resting for a few hours before moving on again at dusk. 

The remnants of ice flats drifted in the deep waters of the shore, the waterlogged planks of old flatboats washed ashore. Aragorn stooped to pick up a piece of the driftwood, Legolas looking out into the deeper waters. Several limp bodies swung in the low tides of the shallows, and Legolas turned them over. 

“Orcs,” he said, a hint of disgust in his voice. He looked in the uneven sand further into the mainland, his eyes tracing the large footprints in the silt. “They made off towards the river Angren. To Isengard….” Legolas looked to Aragorn, dread written over his pale features. 

“We must quicken our pace then. Let’s move.” Aragorn in the lead, the two moved along the trail of footprints. 

. . .

When Jack opened his eyes again, he squinted in the bright light of the noonday sun. His vision was blurry and his hearing felt heavily muffled. He moved to sit up but stopped as a wave of burning pain seared through his side. He glanced down at his wound, seeing the red darken slightly from his movements. He pressed a hand to it and tried again. Half vertical, he looked around at the forest around him.   
He was perched on the gradual slope of a rocky crest. Ancient pine trees surrounded him, and behind his head lay an ashy, twisted oak. Everything was eerily quiet; not even the faintest of bird calls penetrated the silence. Jack hoisted himself to his bare feet, leaning heavily against the oak. From his new vantage point he could see down the hill better. Down below the crest was a camp of orcs. They trotted around, speaking in inaudible tones of Blackspeech and disgustingly biting into some kind of half-raw flesh that served as their food. He stepped behind the tree, away from view of the camp. His heart raced in his chest and his mind told him one command. Run.

He stole another glance at the camp as his legs started to carry him towards the inclining hill and away from the orcs. He felt his chest slam into something almost immediately. He fell to the ground with a wince, biting his tongue to keep from crying out as his injuries were set aflame by the contact. He looked up into the shadow that stood over him. An orc glared back. It was at least a foot and a half taller than him and of a much more muscular and heavyset build. It growled deep in its throat, stepping towards Jack. An armored hand in his hair, he was lifted from the ground. Jack let out a cry of pain and squeezed his eyes shut at the burning sensation that flooded over his scalp. He grabbed at the hand with his own, trying to ease off some of the pressure. Then it was gone. 

Strong arms caught him as he fell out of the hold of the orc, and despite himself, he curled into the cold, shadowy chest of the man who held him. He heard low voices of Blackspeech talking from outside his deafened ears. One was rough and hoarse, the other smooth and silky, but in a dangerous, snakelike way. It made shivers run down his spine. The voices stopped. And then he heard footsteps walking away.   
Cool tendrils of soft skin graced through his hair and Jack opened his eyes. Sharp gold-yellow met his blue-gray. They were soft and filled with an emotion almost like worry. Gray skin dominated sharp, almost elven features. His mouth was slightly parted, and behind thin, grey lips lay sharp, white teeth. Jack’s head cleared then. 

He scrambled back, his shoulders running into the ashy tree. The man stood to his full height then and something flickered through his eyes; curiosity? The man stepped towards him, similarly to how one would approach a deer, and his mouth parted as if to speak when he abruptly stopped and turned to the side, saying something in Blackspeech. He looked into the forest as if there was something looming there. Jack looked and saw nothing. He looked back. The yellow eyes bored into his. The shadowy man lowered himself into a crouch and slowly shifted toward Jack. The boy’s eyes widened, and he shifted away from the man’s slender hand as it reached toward him. Black sand revealed itself from his sleeve and drifted toward his head. He fell almost instantly into a dreamless sleep and slumped forward. The man caught him and laid him back onto the cloak that he had previously been sleeping on. 

. . .

Aragorn scented the air, tasting the wind. A shadow lurked over them, it felt like, one that lingered and seeped into his bones. Storm clouds gathered over the dense trees, forming several great anvils over the Dunadan’s head. Legolas looked up from the printed ground, lifting his eyes skywards. He looked back at the tracks, then at his companion. 

“Elessar, we must keep moving. Already it’s been four days that we’ve tracked them and still they remain.” He looked again at the tracks. “With the coming rain the tracks will fade, if not disappear completely.” Strider looked to his elven friend, giving him a hesitant stare. Legolas put a hand to Aragorn’s shoulder. “What is wrong, Elessar?”

“I fear for our friend’s safety, as I sense a foreboding presence in the air that will not be at rest. We are coming closer.” Aragorn returned his friend’s gesture and set his hand on his shoulder, then walked towards the trail. Legolas followed behind at a quick pace, and soon the two were running through the wood. 

. . .

Pitch heard a cry of pain. It wasn’t an orcish noise, but one very human. Pitch shifted himself quickly, appearing before the tall orc. The boy’s white hair was tangled into the orc’s knotted hand, and his thin body was writhing against the grip. His eyes were squinted shut, and the bandages around his torso weeping red. 

“Stop,” Pitch commanded in Blackspeech. The orc looked at him and dropped the boy, who fell shivering into Pitch’s arms. The boy—his eyes still squeezed shut—curled into a tight ball in his arms, his head against Pitch’s chest. “Leave.”

“It is not right to bring a Nephilim here. They are our sworn enemies, how could you think that Sharku would allow such a thing as him—”  
“Silence. The White has ordered us to return to him from the Sea. That is all you need to know — fool of an orc!” The orc growled but turned away, retreating down to the camp. Pitch ran his fingers through the boy’s soft, dirty hair. Pitch cursed the orc and looked back to the boy in his arms. Bright, icy blue looked up at him and he looked back. The boy’s feverish eyes cleared a little as he came back to reality. He scrambled out of Pitch’s arms and backed himself against a tree. Pitch stood, and as he did, he felt a breath of energy in the wind. It was faint, but he could feel it nonetheless. It was of Dunadan essence and coming closer every second. He looked towards it, through the forest and towards the west; the coast.

The boy looked in that direction too, but looked back to find Pitch’s gaze on him. Pitch knelt down, willing his sand to send the boy into a dreamless sleep as he flinched away from him. The boy slumped forward and Pitch laid him on the cloak spread out over the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations and Notes:
> 
> Melon = Friend
> 
> Elessar = Aragorn’s elvish name
> 
> Naisúelë = Jack Frost’s elven name; meaning, ‘frost spirit.’ Pronounced, (Nah-is-oo-el-eh)


End file.
